Hearing the Elf question some of the group about footprints, Vrór crawled up from out of the cave, huffing and puffing. He rather regretted climbing in there, but he just had to see such a thing with his own two eyes. A good bit of wasted energy was all he felt he had managed. The others didn’t seem much interested in what he had to say about the cavern. They should know that they should only trust a Dwarf when it come to rock and stone. They should, though Vrór wouldn’t be surprised if he was the first Dwarf some of these people had ever come across. His people weren’t always the most social type, and considering the young couple was from Rohan, and the Hobbit was…well, just a Hobbit, it was likely that they at least had never spent much time with a Dwarf.

Brushing spare brown, crusty leaves and a few tiny thorns from him, he looked around for the Elf. He wasn’t going to be left out of a discovery. His hopes rose a bit as he thought of what this talk of footprints might mean. Perhaps there were more signs. What he wanted very badly was some kind of sign that the slaves left the caves of their own free will, and were headed in a direction that was not back to the plantations they had escaped from.

A few voices from over a small hill could still be heard over the babbling of the nearby creek, but Vrór could not make out any words. Carl still stood near the cave entrance, having managed to clean himself up a bit after his own venture down into the cavern. The Dwarf glanced at him.

“Have any idea what the Elf’s found, Master Carl?” he asked the Hobbit with an air of polite curiosity. If there was one thing from his childhood that Vrór rarely forgot, it was the manners that had been ‘beaten into him.’ The only times he didn’t remember them was when it was convenient.

Vrór found it a bit difficult to stand still, and he began to rock back and forth slightly on his heels. Maybe the slaves had even left a sign for them, to let the Fellowship know where they went? Or perhaps these were tracks that showed they had already begun the journey north? Or…what if these were not even tracks from the slaves at all? What if this was the wrong place? The Dwarf felt that was pretty near impossible, but then, he did not know the topography of Mordor very well, nor did he think anyone else in the party did.

But that was nowhere near the worst possibility. Vrór doubted that he would ever be able to forgive himself him if the slaves had been recaptured, or killed. If they were indeed dead or back in the hands of their former masters, then this Fellowship had already failed. His mind could not give up on the idea that all sixty-five of them were dead. It was Mordor. To him, such a slaughter was just the sort of thing that would happen in such a land. An evil had dwelt in this place far too long.

“Perhaps we should see for ourselves,” Carl responded, and the two made their way over the hill. When Vrór saw the couple, Dorran and Athwen, off away from Lindir, the Dwarf glanced at the Hobbit, and made his way over to the Elf. Looking up at the tall, pointy-eared fellow, he hesitated for a moment, seemingly clearing his throat.

“What have we found?” Vrór asked simply, keeping his voice low, not wishing to bother Dorran and his wife. He nervously stroked his beard, and eyed the stream, avoiding the Elf’s gaze.